I felt like a circus clown standing outside Grandmother's room in the sterile outfit they had insisted I wear. There was a gown, paper shoes, and a goofy hat. Plastic gloves topped off the ensemble. Those were bad enough. But this mask?

"How is she going to know who I am with this mask over my face?" I asked the nurse as she reached for the door to let me in.

"She won't even know you are here, Hon." Her eyes looked worried. "We had to induce a coma. She will be unconscious for a while. And I should tell you that it is critical that you keep the mask, and all of the other sterile clothing, on as long as you are in her room. We had to remove a section of her skull to give her brain room to swell. An infection would be dangerous for her."

My gut cramped and I swallowed hard to relieve it. "I understand," I said. Except I didn't. I searched her eyes as I asked one final question. “How long will she be in the coma?”

“Depends on how soon we can get the swelling down.” She motioned for me to enter.

They say that there are things for which you can never be prepared. I learned the truth of that when I caught first sight of Grandmother. She had casts on three limbs; her right leg had been spared. There were tubes in her mouth and nose, and apparently every other place on her body they could find to stick one. Wires came out from under the sheet which covered her and monitors littered the room. You could, I imagined, divine every function of her body from this command center. Her head was covered so that the only recognizable feature of her face was her eyes...those eyes I had come to love so dearly.

My heart sunk to the soles of my shoes and I hoped that the mask would hide the tears that were running into it.

“She asked for you,” Nurse Nona said, “when she was brought in.” She touched my shoulder. “I take it you are close to her.”

I glanced at her. “My parents were killed when I was seven. Grandmother raised me. She has been my mother for the past fifteen years.”

She nodded and squeezed my shoulder a bit. “I'll leave you alone with her. If you need anything, I'll be at my station.”

I did need something. I needed Grandmother to be okay again. But that was the one thing the nurse couldn't deliver. After she left, I dropped to my knees beside the bed and begged God for her life. He was her only hope now.

A pretty fight attendant smiled at Lance and said, "Buh Bye" as he exited the airplane and headed down the ramp which lead to the inside of the airport. It had once been called Weir Cook Airport and was still located on Weir Cook Memorial Blvd., but it is now simply known as Indianapolis International, or IND for short. The trivia helped steady Lance's mind as he searched for the priest who had come to meet him and get him to his grandmother's side.

He stopped and shifted the strap of his bag a little higher on his shoulder. Then he saw who he was looking for. He quickened his steps, nearly running to get to the priest and as he got close, Lance extended his hand. Father Jim reached out and grasped Lance's hand and shook it a little too long. His other hand gripped Lance's shoulder and a look of concern came to his eyes. Lance's gut tightened.

"We need to get on the road." Father Jim looked at the floor. "Your grandmother is in a coma and we should get there as soon as we can."

"This bag is all I brought, so no baggage claim," said Lance. "We can hit the bricks right away."

"Good. Let's go then. We can talk more on the road."

The two men hurried to the parking garage and found Father Jim's car. Once inside, they made their way out of the airport and onto I-69. The plan was to stop off at Lance's home in Frankton and pick up his car, then head to the hospital in the neighboring town of Anderson. Lance wanted to get to his grandmother as quickly as possible. But he also needed to have transportation so Father Jim would not be stuck driving him around all day.

"I appreciate that, Father," Lance replied. "But I know you have other things to do." He reached, almost reflexively, for his small notebook and pen which he carried in his shirt pocket. "Tell me all you can about the accident. Who hit my grandmother?"

"It was someone from out of town. I don't have a name for you. You will need to ask the police. They talked to him for quite some time."

"Do you know how it happened?" Lance's journalist skills took over as started filling in the H's and jotting down notes.

"She parked across the street from the post office just like always. She was crossing the street to check her mail and the car just hit her. I cannot imagine why he was going so fast. He tried to stop, but didn't make it in time. She has a few broken bones, but she hit her head on the pavement. That is the most serious injury. The doctor gave her a drug which induced a coma. That is about all I know right now."

Lance wrote down every word. He had an exact quote even though it was unnecessary. He would never forget those details. As he reached his grandmother's bed-side, he knew this would stay in his memory until the end of his days.

The body of the airplane began to shake as it accelerated down the runway. Then the nose lifted and the bird leapt toward the sky, the sound of its landing gear being sucked up into the belly of the beast. I was airborne and headed back to Indiana to be by my grandmother's side while she recovered from her accident.

Father Jim had not been very specific about what had happened. He had told me that a car had struck her while she was crossing the street to get to the post office in Frankton and that her only real injury was to the head. She had a concussion and they had her in an intensive care unit in the hospital in Anderson.

Grandma was more of a mother to me than a grandmother. She had raised me since I was seven and was the only family I had. It was because of her that I had been able to finish college and go on to grad school at an Ivy League university. I owed everything to her.

A mental picture of her lying in a hospital bed, tubes protruding from her body caused a knot to form in my gut. What am I worrying about? Grandma has always been a trooper. She had managed to make it through a ton of adversity. She needed me there to comfort her, but she would be just fine.

But what if . . .? What if this time was more than she could manage? How would I live without her? I lingered on that thought for just a moment, then decided that negative thinking would only serve to make this trip more difficult. She would be just fine and I would be there to make sure it was so. End of discussion.

The aircraft leveled off at altitude and I reclined my seat to relieve some of the tension in my back. In all of the rush to get onto a flight, I had forgotten to make arrangements for transportation from Indianapolis to Frankton. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number of an old friend from high school, Olivia Litsey, who worked in Indianapolis.

The phone rang four times, then the receptionist picked up. Olivia was out at the moment. Could she take a message? I blew out a long breath.

"I'm an old friend of Olivia. My grandmother is in the hospital and I am headed for Indianapolis." I explained that I needed a ride and asked her if she could contact Olivia for me to make that request. I then entered the great abyss..."Please hold."

I listened to bad music for the next ten minutes, then the receptionist's voice was in my ear once again.

"Miss Litsey said that she will be at the office tomorrow. You can stop by then to see her." Is she serious? Grandma is not going to wait until tomorrow. I won't let that happen. I gave a very insincere "thank you" and hung up the phone.

A flight attendant brought me a soft drink which I accepted with gratitude and sipped while I sorted out what to do next. A taxi for a fifty-plus-mile trip would cost a fortune . . . money which a student just did not have. Sure, I could use the credit card Grandma had given me. But she paid for everything I charged. It was her money, and I was not about to spend it frivolously. One of the constant lessons she taught me was to not waste money and I knew she would be upset with me if I did that.

There were buses, I supposed. But that would take longer than waiting for Olivia. No trains or subways were available. There was an airport in Anderson, where the hospital was located, but if I took a flight it would cost as much as a taxi and I would be in Anderson with no transportation. I needed to get to Frankton to pick up my car at home. Grandma's home. Our home.

I just need for everything to be okay. After seeing that little girl from the fire in New York, and now Grandma, I didn't know how much more I could stand before my mind went postal. Please, Grandma. Please be okay.

My phone rang. It was Father Jim.

"I'm sitting in the airport in Indy, waiting for you. I thought you might need a ride."

I heaved a sigh of relief and thanked him. At least something had gone right.

The fire-fighters kept bringing more and more victims out of the conflagration. All of them were burned, many were dead. It felt like an endless stream. I did my best to describe what was happening as I silently prayed for God to save their lives. Their screams of anguish filled the night air and tortured my soul.

Then she was brought out--the one who would forever haunt my nightmares. She was tiny. From her size, I guessed her age at three years, but it was hard to tell. Her head was bald, the hair having been completely burned away and really the only way I could tell she was a girl was from the still-smoldering night gown which had melted and stuck to most of her body. She looked peaceful from a distance. There were no screams, no crying, no movement in her little limbs. When they laid her on the gurney her chest neither rose nor fell. And nobody came to comfort her or make sure she was okay. But then, I knew that it made no difference to her now. She would never be okay. She was dead.

I fought for words to say about this little angel. Tears filled my eyes and I was on the verge of sobs, but I had to hold it together. Her story had to be told, and I could not tell it if I let my emotions take control. She deserved my best, and I was determined to give it to her.

"They have just brought out the body of a small ... child ...a girl, I think." I had to pause for a moment. Then, from nowhere, words gushed from my mouth. "Oh, God, what have you done?" I began to weep.

Not now. Get it together. I was shocked by what I had just said over live television. There was no way to un-blow that horn, but I had to continue.

I ducked out of the camera's view and wiped my eyes as I resumed commenting on the story. Her story. When I came to a suitable break, the station cut to a commercial and Jack Brady put his hand on my shoulder.

"Good job, Lance." Jack was a senior reporter and it felt good to hear those words which I knew were sincere. "I'll take it from here, but I want you to know that you have done Pulitzer work tonight."

I handed the microphone over to him and stepped back. "Thank you." I wanted to stay on the story, but I knew it had become a major event and the station was going to want their top reporter on camera. I headed for the van that had brought him and sat inside to vent my sorrow.

I allowed myself to weep in this private place. Now was the best time to get it out. As the tears flowed, I prayed for the victims and their families, especially for the poor little girl, and I prayed for myself. I asked God to help me forgive whoever had done this. I asked for understanding. I needed to know why He would allow such a thing to happen to innocent little children who had barely begun to live. And finally, I asked for the strength to continue in this heart-breaking profession to which He had called me.

I put the van in gear and began the drive back to the station. As I wandered through traffic, I wondered if there would be any answers to my questions. And would there be any peace in my soul ever again.

By the time I walked into the news room, my tear-reservoir was empty and had regained my composure. I let my body ease into the chair behind my desk and started looking for something to do...anything to occupy my mind for a while. My stress gauge was nearing the red line.

Stan, my producer, entered the room.

"Lance, can I see you in my office, please?" My heart fell to my toes. Getting called to the carpet was never a good sign. I was going to get fired for my emotional outburst on-air.

So be it. I sighed as I stood and walked the long mile into his office. He stood behind his desk, his extended arm offering me a seat.

As I sat, I remembered the wisdom of my grand-mother, who had raised me. The best thing to do is to admit your failure and take your punishment.

"I think you did an outstanding job out there. Any of us would have been emotional on a story like that." He circled his desk and sat on the edge of it in front of me. His eyes were filled with concern.

"I have a phone call holding for you. I thought it would be best if you took it in here."

He handed the phone to me and patted my shoulder before leaving the room.

I picked up the phone and recognized the voice of Father Jim Donaldson, the parish priest at my home church in Frankton, Indiana.

"I think you should come home, Lance. There has been an accident and your grand-mother is in the hospital."

I could feel the heat from the building and smoke was making my eyes sting. We were already out of my comfort zone.

"Pull over, now." Is she deaf?

"We can get closer."

"Stop the van right now, Rachel." She jabbed at the brakes, then slammed the van into park.

"I want a wide shot of the fire so viewers can see the magnitude of this thing," I lied. "We need to start here and move in slowly."

Rachel glared at me as she worked to get her gear set up. I will smooth things over later, no time now.I pulled out my phone and dialed the producer.

"We are in place, Stan. This thing is big. We will be filming in a couple of minutes."

"Get me a live feed."

Video and sound were connected to the van's satellite system and we moved into position to get the best possible shot from this distance. Once our hook-up was verified, I stood in front of the camera and gave a quick description of the scene.

"We're going to move in closer now and see if we can get comments from these brave fire-fighters." As we inched closer, Rachel kept the camera rolling--panning between various components of the drama unfolding before us. The water shooting from a fire hose. Fire-fighters running into the building, disappearing into the flames. A row of EMS ambulances standing at the ready.

I was a wreck. This was my first live coverage, and the flames engulfing the building were telling me there would be casualties. Lots of casualties. The knot in my gut felt like it might have forced my stomach contents out...if there had been anything in my stomach. I kept talking and moving closer, mostly to keep myself from losing it.

We found the scene commander and I pushed the microphone to his face. "Any idea what caused the fire?"

He paused. The look on his face said that he didn't want to deal with me. Then he saw the camera and his demeanor changed. He became Mister Public Relations.

"We won't know for sure until the fire is out and investigators can get inside. But it sounds like it may have been a meth-lab explosion. That kind of thing happens a lot in neighborhoods like this one." He lifted his head, looking slightly down his nose at me.

"There are a number of ambulances waiting over there. Was the building occupied when this happened? Are there still people inside?" I was afraid of the answer I knew was coming.

"This is an apartment building and it is apparently fully occupied. A lot of people inside, most of them sleeping when the fire broke out. We don't know how many got out."

I couldn't help it. I wretched on camera. Nothing came out and I did my best to cover it up, but I was certain that I was not successful. The chief tried to cover me.

"But we are certain that there are some people left inside and we are going to do everything we can to save as many as we can."

The fire-fighters began to stir near the exit. Voices sounded excited.

"Thank you, Chief, for your hard work." I turned my attention to Rachel. "Get a shot of the entrance. Something is happening over there."

Men were shouting commands and making room for something at the entrance. Someone emerged with a woman hanging limp in his arms. Her clothing and hair were charred.

Was she black? She must be black if she lived in this neighborhood. It really didn't matter. She was a human being and that was the important thing. But it broke my heart that I could not tell what her race was because she was so badly burned. She was alive, but obviously not going to make it.

Then another fireman emerged -- and another victim. A parade of horrors had begun.

=============================================================[To Be Continued . . .]

As promised, here is the first installment of a short story which will touch briefly on the problem of evil. I hope you enjoy it.

***

They always stuck the junior reporters on the late night shift. And since I was a journalism student and here on an internship, I was the lowest guy at Fox 5, lower than whale dung on the ocean floor. It was 3 AM and my eyes were at half mast. Too sleepy to resist any longer, I felt my chin come to rest on my chest.

The crackle of the police scanner jerked me awake only this time it was not a police call. It was a call for the fire department. A building was burning and an additional unit was being called in to help out.

"Lance," came the call through the boss' office doorway. "Did you hear that fire call?"

"I'm on it," I answered. "Where is Bill?" I scanned the newsroom for the camera-man on duty.

"Bill is in the cafeteria," the feminine voice came from behind me. It was Rachel Hendry. "But if you want quality shots, I suggest you take me instead."

"Bill was assigned to me tonight," I said. "And this isn't even your shift. What are you doing here?"

"Look, by the time you find him and get out there, the fire will be out." She raised her camera to eye-level. "But I am ready to go right now."

I shifted my weight and thought about it for a moment. She had a point. Bill was supposed to be in the cafe, but he was unpredictable. No telling where he actually was.

"And I'm better than him," her left eyebrow raised. "You know I am. Now let's get moving while there is still a story."

I sighed and spun toward the door leading to the parking garage. "Let's roll." I grabbed a microphone on the way out and headed for the news van with Rachel close behind, her equipment bag slung over her shoulder.

We trotted to the van and I reached for the door handle. The door began to open when Rachel's hand grabbed mine.

"I'm driving," she said.

I wanted to put her in her place. I was the reporter here, and as such, I was in charge...sort of. But there was not time to argue the point. I ran to the passenger side and plopped down, buckling my seat belt as the engine cranked up.

"Get us there safely, but be quick about it."

She shot me a glance that looked almost resentful as she pulled the transmission into gear and backed out of the parking space.

"140th at Edgecombe," I said as the van rolled out of the garage onto Sixth Avenue. I pulled up the GPS on my phone and began to track our progress.

"How about I just follow this fire truck?" She kicked the accelerator hard.

"Stay back," I said. "It is illegal to follow them." What was she thinking?

"Relax, Traffic-Nazi. I'll get us there."

A knot formed in my gut as she wove through traffic. I grabbed the handle over my door and prayed that we would arrive at the scene with all of our body parts intact.

As we pulled onto 140th Street, I could see the fire from blocks away. It was an apartment building which was obviously still occupied and the blaze rose high in the air. Two engines pumped water and a third was leading us to the scene. My hands began to tremble and I fought to breathe. Smoke was already seeping into the van. It was an inferno.

I saw another author doing something on her blog, and it looked fantastic! So I am going to emulate it. I will be writing short stories live on this blog.

I figure that will benefit both me and you, the reader. I get to hone my skills with the frequent ad lib writing. And you get free reading and the opportunity to let your input shape what is being written. It's a win-win!

Obviously, I cannot put an entire story into a single blog post, so it will be done in small bits each day...about 500 words or so. It should take about fifteen posts to complete a story. [Disclaimer: all numbers are approximate. It could go longer or shorter as the spirit moves.] I like to think of it as fiction on the installment plan.

My goal in these stories is to fine-tune the characters I intend to use in upcoming novels. I will be working on their voice, personal characteristics, flaws and other components which make them worthy of being a major player. After I finish a story, I will leave it up long enough for you to read the whole thing, in case you missed something. Then I will take it down and compile it into a single story which will (possibly) be published.

In the first story, I will present Lance Scott. He is currently a grad student at the Columbia University Journalism School but by the time he makes it into a novel, he will have graduated and be working as a journalist.

I hope you enjoy these stories. Come back often, because you won't want to miss any installments.

I am working on a new series featuring Lance Scott, a free-lance journalist and his Basset Hound, Maggie. Maggie is the product of human experimentation. She is what is known as trans-species -- mostly Basset mixed with about 25 percent human genes. She is brilliant and she can talk.

Together, the two of them track down some of the worst criminals in the country.

Curiously, I wrote book two first. It is called The Candidate. It is in first-draft form at the moment and will remain that way until I complete book one. Once they are both in publishable condition, I will be releasing them at the same time. Then I will begin working on book 3.

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These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of these stories may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author and copyright owner.